Je T'aime, Tu Me Manques
by LxISxAxBABE
Summary: After the French and Indian War, Arthur takes Matthew from his French father. What happen when the misery start pulling Francis apart? Implied, One-sided FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

I wrote this one a little while ago, and just haven't been able to get it posted… I'm just a slacker like that. But I wanted to write something mature and cute… which is harder than it sounds.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I only wish I did. Seriously. I would be **rich**.

**Chapter 1**

I missed him. As I listened to the soft patter of the rain on the porch, I watched the somber gray clouds above. Was it the sky crying? I watched the heavy gray drops fall to the earth, so purposeless. It reminded me of his tears. Those beautiful blue irises, so full of heavy tears. He may have taken the look of that damned British colony, but we both knew he was mine.

I wanted him in my arms. I wanted to draw him close to my heart and smell his sweet, woodsy smell. I wanted to ruffle his sandy hair like a child's again. I wanted to watch the rain with him.

He had been taken from me, I thought angrily, breathing sharply. Damn that Arthur- he stole away from me my most precious child! He had corrupted him. His beautiful French was permeated with that vulgar English, so uneven and jerky. Curse words and profanity dropped from shell-pink lips with ease. I had tried to teach him better, but no- that bastard country had undermined all of my work with him. He wouldn't even acknowledge him. He merely claimed him for the sake of throwing it into my face.

"Mathieu," I murmured, watching the heavy drop of rain hit the planks. I could still see his cheery, if not flustered expression. I remembered when he would hold my hand when I visited and cling to my words for life when he was still so young. Even as he grew older, he would look to me for advice, look for my guidance. But now- Arthur had ruined him. He wasn't my Mathieu anymore. He was a lost, confused, frightened country with no one to ask for help. If I could just talk to him again...

But I wouldn't risk his safety like that. If Arthur found out he was in contact with me, he would tear the poor country to shreds. I couldn't protect him anymore. Gingerly, I touched my ribs, still tender and cracked. I was still battered from my last conflict with my rival. He had chased me from my stake of land in the new world... he had taken from me my colony... he destroyed my alliance with the also crippled Antonio... he had dominated me and laughed at my broken body. He corrupted the little bit of Alfred that could have been cultured. He took my child!

Angrily, I got to my feet and stalked to the glass doors. I could feel the cool of the rain radiating through the glass. My shoulders slumped, and I let myself fall forward and rest my forehead against the cold glass. My bare toes curled and I breathed the damp air from outside. The rain had lightened considerably, and I stood up and slid open the door. The wood under my feet was slick from the rain, and the water was cold. I felt a few heavy drops fall upon my shoulders and face. I hobbled when I walked, yes, but I was still strong. Was I strong enough to aid my child and have him returned to me? Certainly not, I thought with a sigh. I needed to accept that I no longer owned Mathieu.

I smiled bitterly. It stung to think that. I could feel the cold rain soaking through my shirt, through my bandages, and I shuddered against the chill. Yet I didn't go inside. I stood in the rain and fought back angry tears.

* * *

My neighbor from the south came and visited me. He was resentful and cruel, but at least I finally received some attention.

I missed Francis. He cared for me like a father. But when that Arthur man took me over, Francis couldn't help me anymore. Arthur wouldn't help me. Alfred, Arthur's young colony, was spiteful because I was still French. I felt as though I had no one. If only I could return to Francis. He loved me. He would hold my hand and teach me about the world. I could sit on his lap and snuggle against his chest and smell flowers. Lilacs and lavender and irises of every type. I could feel his soft hair on my cheek when he kissed it ever so gently. I missed touching his soft hands, his strong arms.

I could feel tears in my eyes, and angrily, I rubbed them away. Damnit, this was no time to cry! But the tears came nonetheless. I drew my legs up to my chest and buried my face in my knees.

"W-why... did you have to l-l-leave?" I whimpered, "Why c-couldn't you j-just stay with me?" I imagined him standing there in his pajamas like he used to, smiling gently.

'Don't cry now, Mathieu," he would say, his voice soft. He would come up to me and gather me in his arms and let me put my head on his chest.

"I c-can't help it," I whimpered aloud, "I miss you." He would chuckle softly and nuzzle my forehead.

'And I, you,' he would respond, 'And I would hope that you can hold out. I'm trying, _mon cher_. I am." I sniffled and looked up, but there was no one. Frustrated tears began to run down my cheeks. I should have known better, but I was in desperate want of his company. Even for a little while. I close my eyes and lean back on the couch, holding my knees to my chest desperately.

Softly, as if like tears, the rain came. I could hear it hitting the needles of the trees around me. I sighed; it was shaky.

"I miss you, Francis," I murmured, blinking back more tears. It hurt to admit that he was gone. I touched my hair; he had liked it when it was long. He used to sit and brush my hair, commenting on how beautiful it was. Arthur had made me chop away most of my hair when he took me. I felt the short, uneven ends. It felt so wrong to look like this. I felt like I was betraying my father country. My hair was so coarse now. I hated it. My anger welled up in my chest. I hated Arthur. I hated Alfred. I hated them all!

The rain grew louder as they fell faster. I got to my feet and walked to the picture window. The thick evergreen forest around me looked so bitter. The mosses glittered and oozed with the extra water they collected. The sky looked misty. I looked around, and I was the only one I could see. The woods were empty. I was alone.

* * *

So concludes chapter 1. I maybe should have made it longer, but I got kinda indolent and dropped it off there. There are other chapters! (Duh…) Read them please, and give me advice to fix my sloppy writing style. Review please~! You'll make me happy. :3

….er. Happi_er. _I'm already at an _unhealthily _high level of happy. So I'll be happi_er_. :3


	2. Chapter 2

And so begins Chapter 2. Enjoy! (I dun feel like writing a lot right now...)

Disclaimer: Me no own Hetalia. Or the cast. I'd make Canada less invisible if I did.

**Chapter 2**

The hurt set in like infection. It started in his chest, above his heart, and then it spread throughout his body. And with the sadness came the sickness. He was listless and dead in his own skin. He was disgusted with his current life. He hated himself. He hated everything. He missed what he had lost.

His allies noted the changes in him but could not decide what distressed him. Feliciano watched his elder brother's languid movements painfully, feeling the loss himself but not knowing what he was missing.

"Francis," Ludwig said one day, "what ails you? You're not yourself."

"I'm just under the weather," he replied impassively.

Each time someone asked after him: "I caught a cold of some sort."

"You seem so unhappy," Romano stated with true concern, "Can I be of any assistance?"

"I'm just a little sick," he said, feeling the knots in his stomach tighten agonizingly, "I will be fine in a while."

"Are you lying to me?" Feliciano cried, "You look awful!" And he would merely shake his head.

"I'm fine. Just a little under the weather." Antonio knew better, as did Arthur. Antonio wouldn't bring up the subject, but Arthur knew he was the cause. And although he would rather have not cared about the pathetic Frenchman's feelings, he felt extremely guilty. But he refused to return the territory. Canada was his land now. Francis had no right to claim the young territory anymore. He lost it. Canada was under English rule now.

But Arthur could feel the regret welling up in his chest. Was it really that wrong? He looked over, and Francis was positioned at the picture window in the conference hall, his eyes blank, yet bitter. His hands were heavy on the windowsill. He blinked; it was slow, delayed. The Brit's eyes worked over the heavy, tired way the man's body stood. His pale lips were parted and he exhaled, but it was a harsh, pained sound so unlike his usual polite silence. He jolted; looked around. Then he sighed, stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his pants and slowly made his way out of the room. Arthur followed, but for no reason. He felt there was a pull dragging him after the Frenchmen.

Pale eyes lifted from the floor, and the man turned around entirely.

"Why are you following me, _Monsieur_?" he asked sharply, though it lost a considerable amount of bite. "Haven't you ruined me enough!" Arthur took a step back, lifting his hands in a non-threatening gesture.

"I just wanted to ask how you were feeling," Arthur lied, "I heard you were sick-"

"You know damn well that I'm not sick," Francis snapped, but his voice trembled, "You know what you did, you bastard."

"I honestly don't know-" Arthur began.

"Don't lie!" Francis roared. His face crumpled just slightly, and he bit his lower lip before turning. "You know how you ruined his life. I hope you would at least... at least take care of him." He stalked away without another word, leaving his rival country standing there. The Englishman hung his head and guilt overtook him. What had he done?

* * *

I curled up on my bed and let out a shaky breath. Damn that Arthur, I thought miserably, damn him! The tears began to flow, down the bridge of my nose, down my cheek and onto my sheets where the liquid soaked in. If I felt this terrible, how was Mathieu holding up? Was he upset? Was he scared? I needed desperately to see him. I needed to enfold him in my arms and tell him everything was okay, and I needed to smell the scent of evergreen on his skin and feel the warmth of his body.

"Damn him," I whispered, "Damn him to hell!" _Mon cher, mon enfant...*_

"_Tu as pris mon enfant**_," I whimpered, trembling. I felt like an addict suffering from the after-tremors of quitting. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt my heart throbbing violently in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Francis!" There was knocking at the door. I looked up.

"Who is it?" I asked wearily.

"It's me, Antonio," they answered, "Can I come in?" I nodded, sighing.

"Yes. Come in." I rolled over and faced toward the window as he slowly opened the door.

"Close the door after you," I said tiredly.

"Are you alright?" he asked me softly. I felt him sit on the edge of my bed and lay a hand on me lightly. I flinched.

"Yes," I lied, "I'm fine." I could feel him studying the sliver of my face that he could see.

"You've been crying," he stated gently.

"Don't put it in the past tense," I begged faintly, "It would be a lie, anyway..." He gently stroked my side.

"What's wrong, Francis? I know you're not sick... what happened?" I took a shaky breath inward. When I considered telling him, I saw _his_ face. So young. I choked back tears that threatened to spill over my lower lids, and a low sound caught in my throat. He looked over at my face, and I winced as he reached down and brushed away a tear that was about to run down my cheek.

"Francis... we've been allies for years. It hurts to see you like this. Please, if I can help, tell me."

"I couldn't ask you to go in again," I whispered, and new tears began to flow. I tried to withhold my sobs, but they burst out and racked my body in violent tremors. Spain took hold of me and rubbed my back gently as I cried.

"Damn him!" I wailed, "Damn that bastard to hell!"

"Who's him?" Antonio asked unobtrusively. I ignored him unintentionally and gripped his clothing tighter in my fists.

"He took my child! That heartless bastard took him and treats him so badly! My poor child!"

"Matthew?" he asked, and I howled louder, breaking off in French.

"Is it Arthur? Are you upset about the last war?" he asked. I looked up, certain I looked like a madman with my red eyes and messy hair.

"Yes! That bastard Arthur took him... My child, my precious... he took my Mathieu from me, Antonio! He took him away and I can't get him back!" Antonio wiped my eyes like a father.

"Is he taking care of him?" Antonio asked softly, brushing the wet hair from my cheek.

"That's the problem, Antonio," I whimpered, "He's not. He doesn't care about Mathieu... his damn colony America… he mocks Mathieu, and Arthur does nothing! Mathieu is all alone... It's all my fault," I concluded miserably, hanging my head, "I wasn't strong enough to protect him... I left him to die..."

"It's not your fault," he said gently, rubbing my back, "You couldn't help it."

"I should have backed off. I challenged Arthur... I was a fool, and I... it's my fault, Antonio. I can't even fix it, either!" I released him and pushed away, wiping my puffy eyes on my sleeves. He looked sympathetic; it made me angry.

"Francis-"

"You don't understand, do you!" I snapped, my lip curling up to bare my teeth, "You didn't have a colony-"

"I lost a lot of land too, Francis!" he retorted, taking me by the wrist. He immediately calmed and looked down at my palm. "I understand your anger, Francis. I understand your frustration. I... I don't know how to help you, _amigo_, but you know I would go to the ends of the earth to help you."

"I'm going to kill him," I snarled, "I'm going to kill Arthur, and take Mathieu back."

"Don't say such things," Antonio pleaded, "You don't mean them."

"I do!" I roared, feeling fresh tears form, "I mean it all!"

"You don't," he repeated, "You would feel guilty." I knew he was right; weakly, I crumpled. I drew my legs up to my chest and rested my forehead on my knees.

"You're right," I murmured, "As always."

"Let me talk to him," he said, "I'll talk to Arthur and see if he will relinquish Matthew for you."

"He won't," I whimpered, "He wants to see me suffer."

"I'll persuade him for you," Antonio said gently, "I'll have Matthew returned to you."

"And if he won't?" I asked hoarsely, looking up at him. He shook his head with a gentle smile.

"He will. I promise." I shook my head also, but with a different meaning.

"I pray you are right," I whispered, "I don't know how much more of this I can endure... I'm dying inside, Antonio. I can feel it." He looked into my eyes.

"I know, Francis. I can see it." He bowed and took his leave, and I collapsed onto my bed and broke down in fresh sobs.

* * *

"I saw your father today," Arthur spat, and I sat up in a hurry.

"Francis?"

"He wanted to know... how I was treating you," he said, turning away. I stared at that mop of blonde hair hatefully.

"Why don't you just return me to him! You don't even want me!"

"I need you as proof!" he snapped, turning. Hate and tears, all at once.

"Of what!" my voice cracked; I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

"Of... of my victory over Francis," he admitted softly.

"Everyone knows," I whispered, drawing my legs up to my chest, "Everyone knows what happened. You don't need proof." I swallowed down my tears. "Does... does he miss me?"

"Yes. He does." My heart lifted at his words. He took a few steps.

"He misses you very much. He really cares about you."

"Can... Can I see him?"

"No!" he turned around sharply. "Why would you think that I would let him come here? He would try to take you back!"

"You don't care about me anyway! What would be the difference!" I shouted, "Just because I wouldn't be suffering-!"

"You'll hold your tongue when you're addressing me, you cur!" he snapped, "I could slaughter you with ease! I only keep you for Francis!" He stopped, as if he had said too much.

"Why for him?" I asked weakly.

"That's none of your concern," he said bitterly.

"I want to know," I whispered, "You won't even let me see him... he's my father, and you won't even let me see him! You can at least tell me why you haven't killed me!" He looked furious for a moment. Then his face melted into a weakened state. He took a seat in a large recliner. Francis... my father, he helped me pick that chair. It stung to see that man sitting in my father's chair.

"Do you really want to know," he asked dully, folding his legs.

"Yes," I said softly, "Please." He sighed heavily.

"I've... I've always admired Francis. There's just... he's so confident, he so handsome and so genial... there's just an aura about him that I envy."

"You... you like him," I said softly, "Don't you?"

"..." he looked up, and his green eyes were misty and pained. "Yes. I do."

"Then why do you fight with him?" I asked, holding my knees tighter, "Why don't you just tell him?"

"Because I fear he doesn't share my feelings," Arthur said softly, "I'm terrified of rejection."

"But you can't be sure unless you try, right?" I asked.

"Why am I even telling you this?" he asked, "Bloody hell... but you remind me so much of your father..."

"It's been so long... I don't even know if I can remember him that well..." I wiped my eyes. He stared at me long and hard.

"If you're trying to guilt me into letting you see Francis, you're too late," he said harshly, "Francis himself already made me feel lower than dirt." I wiped my eyes again.

"Please... I know you're not heartless, just... let me see my dad again... Just once," I whispered. He stood up.

"Why? Why should I!"

"I thought you cared about Francis!"

"I'm not willing to just hand you back to my rival!" he snapped, "Even if I have feelings for him!"

"Please..." I slid my feet down onto the carpet. "Please, Arthur... please... He's my _dad..." _And Arthur just stood up.

"Your sentimentality breaks my heart," he murmured, "But I can't. Good day." He exited without another word, and I found my polar bear (a gift from Francis when I was still young), clutched it to my chest, and sobbed.

* * *

Aw… I feel bad when I write sad things… Plus my POV keeps changing. I'm sorry if it's confusing... :'( You like? Yes? No? R&R please! But I'm not a beggar. So I'll ask nicely and hope you find in your heart to leave me a little something. 'Kay?

**TRAAAAAAAANSLAAAAAATIONS~!**

* _Mon cher, mon enfant_- my dear, my child

** _Tu as pris mon enfant_...- You took my child...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"That's it!" I watched Francis as he stormed though the dining hall. He had become wrathful and sharp of tongue. He stopped caring about his appearance, instead pulling his long hair back with a dirty ribbon and wearing bleach-stained jeans and a faded flannel shirt that was missing a few buttons. His eyes had lost their humor. His voice was always hard with anger. He cursed under his breath and stop associating with even his dearest friends.

"Antonio?" I knocked on my ally's door. "Do you know what's happened to Francis? I'm worried." He opened the door, wearing nothing but a towel and a pained expression.

"Come in." I entered and sat down in an antique chair.

"Francis is worrying me," I said softly, "I thought you might know what's happening to him."

"To be honest, I do," he said, "And I'm trying to fix it. But... It's complicated, Feliciano."

"How so?" I asked.

"I'm sorry; I don't think you would understand," he apologized, "Just give him his space. This should be over soon."

"Can you at least try to explain?" I asked, "Francis is my friend too." Antonio was silent, running a hand through his damp hair thoughtfully.

"I... come over here. I don't want the whole world knowing why the mighty country France has been brought to such a level." I got up and slowly approached him, and he beckoned me to sit beside him. Then he leaned over slowly and whispered in my ear. My eyes widened a fraction.

"You mean Matt?" he nodded, standing up. His towel was slipping a bit, but he nonchalantly adjusted it so all I could see was muscled expanses of tanned torso.

"I've been reasoning with Arthur, but he won't budge on the subject. I'm going to try a final assault though. If it doesn't work, then I'm going to bring Francis in and we're going to fight him. I... It truly hurts to see my dear friend like this. I feel as though I'm responsible, though he won't agree.

"Arthur doesn't honestly care about keeping his new colony, which is what I'm pressing. But he refuses to even let them see each other. I know it's driving Francis mad; you can see it in his face and in his actions. It frightens me, Feliciano. I worry for his safety. I'm afraid of what his next action will be." He turned to me. "He's still wounded from our last war. If he attacks again without aid, I'm afraid Arthur will destroy him." I sat up.

"I... Should I talk to Francis?"

"He won't listen; he's turned into a madman," Antonio said bitterly, "He's lost all sense, Feliciano. He's not our Francis."

"We can bring him back though, right? There's gotta be a way." Antonio turned to me and smiled weakly.

"You're so hopeful, Feli," he said softly, "I wish it were that easy. But it isn't." My heart sunk.

"But... but..."

"I only wish I could help him that easily," he said, sinking heavily into the chair I had occupied only minutes ago. "He's family to me. I love him like a brother... and I can't even help him." I watched helplessly as he brushed away tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes. "I'm plagued with these fears, Feliciano. I fear that I can't return Matthew to Francis. I fear Arthur will refuse. I fear Francis is too far gone to be saved. I fear he'll do something rash, and I won't see him much longer." He looked up helplessly at me. His dark eyes sparkled with thousands of crystal tears.

"Don't think that way, Antonio!" I said forcefully, "It'll work! It has too! Arthur isn't heartless, right?" And he chuckled, but it was a pained sound. The tears spilled down his cheeks like water and he let out a choked sob.

"I'm not so sure anymore, Feliciano."

* * *

"Hey, loser," the blonde said, but I just breathed in the scent of my polar bear.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" he said, stopping in front of me.

"So?" I said softly, "It's no different than usual." He stared down at me with those piercing, hateful blue eyes.

"What's up? You finally up and dyin'?" he asked, sitting beside me. I looked up into his face; he had the kind face of a hero, but it was always lined with hate when he looked at me. I scowled.

"I miss my father," I said icily, "Isn't that normal?"

"No," he said, "I _hate_ my dad. Most colonies do. What's wrong with you?" I fought back tears.

"I actually care about him," I growled, "I actually love my father."

"And that's why you're the perfect punching bag," Alfred laughed, shoving me. I turned.

"Will you quit it, you ass!" I snapped. He smiled cruelly.

"Who's going to make me? Hunh?" He shoved me again, and I glared at him.

"Stop it, Alfred!"

"Make me!" he said, laughing. I got to my feet, trying to dodge his hands, but he tapped me and I stumbled over. When I got up, my rage bubbled over.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" I screamed, and I guess I drew my fist back, because the first thing I realize was his blood on my knuckles. He was clutching his face, crying out.

"What the hell!" His voice was nasally. "Why'd you punch me!" I stared at my knuckled in horror, seeing the red liquid drip down the back of my hand. I began to tremble, and I sunk to my knees, holding my wrist. He sat up, and I saw the blood flowing from between his fingers. I suddenly was struck by a queasy feeling and vertigo.

"You have a nasty left hook!" he said, letting go of his face. I saw all of the damage I had caused to his face; all of the blood. "Where'd you learn that?" And when I saw the blood all over his face, I lost it and passed out.

I woke up to Arthur and Alfred standing over me, examining me.

"You hit my colony," Arthur said plainly, and I tried to leap to my feet. I felt suddenly ill, and leaned over and threw up. Arthur made a face.

"Disgusting..." I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and looked up weakly.

"Why did you hit him?" he asked me, his voice sharp. I didn't know what to say. I bit my lip and didn't move.

"Get up," Arthur instructed. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet. I wobbled with sick instability. Alfred's face was still slightly bloody, and his nose was purplish.

"Why did you hit him?" Arthur said again, his voice slow and dangerous. I took a step back.

"I... I-I didn't mean it..." I whimpered, "It w-was just a r-r-reaction..." I could hear Alfred defending me.

"I started it, Dad... I was pushing him-"

"Don't speak out of turn, Alfred. I'm not in any mood to deal with your nonsense!" Arthur snapped. Alfred puffed up, indignant, but he didn't speak. Arthur turned to me, and his green eyes flashed.

"You've got too much of your damned father in you," he said dangerously, stepping closer to me. I stepped back, my hands up.

"R-really, I didn't mean it," I stammered, and my body trembled.

"I really ought to have fixed that right after that war," he growled, "But I didn't. I had _hoped _you would behave yourself." He continued advancing, so I kept backing up, feeling my pulse race.

"I-I'm sorry," I stuttered.

"I kept you with the hope that I could retrain you," Arthur continued, as if I hadn't spoke, "I guess once French, always French." My back bumped into the wall, and I flattened myself to the cool drywall. My breathing turned to shallow pants. He stopped a few inches in front of me, his arms folded. His piercing eyes were so narrow, I could barely see anything but slim green slits.

"Maybe I should obliterate you. You're not strong enough to fight me," he said, "Maybe I should enslave you. Make you go hungry in a cell." But he leaned back and opened his eyes. "But I'm not heartless. Now go to your bedroom. I'll decide what to do with you after." I was shaking so violently. My heart pounded. Slowly, I sunk down the wall and gripped my knees fearfully.

"Thank you... thank you..." I whimpered. He turned.

"Clean up your sick before you go," he said disgustedly, "No one else should have to clean your mess." He walked past his colony and exited the room, and I began to sob. Slowly, I picked myself up. While Alfred watched, I found a mop and cleaned up my vomit, then emptied the bucket and staggered to my room. He followed me until the staircase. Then he stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched me enter my room. Once in, I collapsed on my bed and sobbed violently. Why was it always me? But then again, why did he spare me?

"I hope you feel better!" I heard Alfred shout up the stairs. I looked at my polar bear, lying so limply on the floor, and took a deep breath. I could manage. I could do it. But my body wouldn't stop shaking, and the tears wouldn't stop flowing.

"Dad..." I whimpered, "I miss you, Dad..." I closed my eyes and moaned painfully. "Where are you, Dad?"

* * *

"That's it," I panted, lurching toward the exit. Antonio and Feliciano were on either of my arms, restraining me.

"Where are you going, _señor_!" Antonio asked, and I jerked my arm away from him.

"I'm going to see Mathieu!" I roared, "I'm going to see my son!"

"Arthur will kill you!" Feliciano was speaking now, and I pulled my arm from his grip also.

"Let him!" I shouted, "I'll risk my life if I can see my boy one more time! If I can ensure his safety, to hell with what happens to me!"

"What if he takes it out on Matthew! Think this through, _señor_!"

"I'll take him down with me!" I hissed, "He won't be able to hurt him! I'll kill him first!" I turned, but Antonio grabbed my wrist. I turned, glaring at him.

"So you're helping him, are you! I knew you'd betray me, Antonio! And I thought that you were my ally!"

"I am!" he said desperately, "Please, Francis... you'll die! Don't do this... please, for your brother..."

"I'm doing this for my own flesh and blood!" I shouted, "I'm doing this for my _child_!" I ripped my arm from his grasp and ran. I passed through throngs of other countries, who stared in shock as I sprinted to my car.

"Antonio, don't try to stop me," I ordered, climbing behind the wheel. I slammed the door and locked it, and he met the side of my door, slamming his fists on the window.

"No, don't! Francis, don't do this! This is insanity!"

"If it is insane to love and want to protect your child," I declared, starting the engine, "Then I don't mind being _un fou_!" He backed away just as I slammed my foot on the gas. The car shot forward, and I sped out of the parking lot. I could see Antonio sprinting into the peace building in the rearview mirror. Quickly, I raced onto the highway and toward the docks. Once I was on the water, they couldn't stop me.

"I'm coming, _mon cher_," I breathed, gripping the wheel tighter, "I'm coming for you."

I reached the port quickly and, breathless, I stormed onto the pier. I was greeted by the fishermen who recognized my status.

"Oh, _bonjour, Monsieur_," they said, bowing.

"Never mind the formalities," I said, waving them away irritably, "I need the fastest ship there is. I need to get to the US as soon as possible."

"Well, there is the Anna-Marie II," one man remarked, "It can get you there in a week."

"A week?" I was breathless, "I'll take it. Where is the ship?" The men pointed out a small sailboat at the end of the pier, explaining that the man who owned it would charge a large fee.

"I don't care about the money," I said, "I'll pay a million francs if I can get there quickly!" I hurried down the dock, my long jacket fluttering against the sea breeze.

"_Monsieur_!" I called into the ship's cabin, "_Monsieur_, how much do you want for a trip to America?" The man peeked out. His dark eyes were set under unruly eyebrows of charcoal. His hair and beard were a tangled mess of black, but I could see the red of his lower lip through all the black.

"Ain't going there right now," he said gruffly.

"I'll pay anything if you bring me," I said breathlessly, "I need to get there quickly."

"Why?" he asked.

"I need to see my son!" I said weakly. He looked me up and down with his squinting eyes.

"... Get on," he said, "I'll take you there." I vaulted over the edge.

"_Merci_, monsieur, _merci_!" I said, panting, "How much money do you want?"

"I'll take ya for free," he said, "I know how it feels to lose a son." I thanked him again, and he brushed it off.

"You're Francis, right?"

"_Oui_," I said. He shook his head.

"Arthur ain't too fond of ya, hunh. He said not to let you on our boats. He must be the cause a' ya troubles, eh?" I nodded, and slowly, I brought myself to lean against the wall.

"He stole my son," I whispered, "He took him, and I think that he is abusing him." The man watched me vacuously. He merely nodded curtly and began to work off the ropes tying us to the dock. My heart opened with new wounds, and I withheld my tears as we cast off.

"I'm coming, Mathieu," I whispered, "I'll be there soon. Wait for me."

* * *

I stood outside Matthew's door, listening to his ragged breathing. He was still crying, and it had been four days. He refused to eat, he wouldn't drink, he wouldn't talk to me. He clutched his stuffed bear to his chest and cried or wheezed, or he slept. His sleep was fitful as well, and he cried out in anguish in his sleep. If only I could help him, but there was only one solution, and I refused it.

I heard soft footsteps behind me, and I turned. My young colony, so handsome and yet so full of piss and vinegar. He stared me in the eyes.

"I blame all of this on you," he hissed, narrowing his eyes.

"You _will not _speak to me like that," I said calmly. My voice dropped to a dangerous growl. He folded his arms.

"I'm not a wuss like Matthew," he said, frowning, "I'm not dedicated to you like he is to Francis."

"And why not?" I asked, folding my arms and leaning against the closed door, "I gave you life, Alfred. Without me, _there would be no you_!" He laughed.

"Maybe the world would be better without me," he said. I suddenly understood the tone of his voice, and I softened.

"Don't talk like that, Alfie," I said gently, using his childhood pet name. He wouldn't look at me anymore.

"I think you made a mistake by making me," he said, glowering at the wall, "I'm especially convinced since all of your attention has been focused on that French colony."

"It's not because I don't love you," I said, my voice dropping to a pleading purr, "Please, Alfie, understand..."

"I don't know what there is to understand," he said, and his voice cracked, "Please, tell me. What do you even think of me!"

"I love you, Alfred, really... I love you with all of my heart," I said, stepping forward. He stepped back. _Just like Matthew_, I thought as my heart wrenched painfully.

"Please, Alfred... Come here," I said softly.

"No..." he whispered, "I... I'm leaving. I'm going home. Maybe if I do something, you'll actually show me some attention and affection!" And he turned and hurried down the stairs. I tried to chase him, but he was gone before I could catch him. I felt bitter pain in my throat. That was my child. He's mine, and I've nearly lost him.

"Damn you, Francis," I whispered, "I blame you for this." But I knew I was lying. This was all my doing. I brought ruin upon myself. I heard a door open, and I spun around. Matthew was standing in his doorframe, clutching that wretched toy to his chest.

"Go back to your room, damnit!" I roared, "You've caused enough trouble!" He stared at me for a while, his eyes full of pain, before closing the door. I heard him drag his feet across the floor, and the floor creaked as he sat on his bed. I sighed and walked toward the parlor. The fire was dying in the fireplace. Heavily, I sunk into a chair and stared at the tongues of flame. What had I become?

* * *

I woke up with a weak feeling in my limbs. I was still on a boat. I had been on this boat for six days.

I hadn't eaten. I drank sparingly. I could feel the tangles in my hair and the grime in my clothes. The fisherman who owned this boat looked dirty as well, but was well awake and looked more worn and rugged than weak.

I yanked myself from my bed, stumbling as I got to my feet. Carelessly, I tore my fingers through my knots in my hair and pulled the yellow mass back in a low ponytail. I undressed, shook out my clothes, and redressed in the filthy articles. Then I walked out onto the deck and watched as the fishermen steered. I couldn't see his face very well, but he looked tired. He scratched his grizzly beard and turned the wheel expertly.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_," I said politely, and he looked over and nodded.

"We made good time," he said gruffly, "Got less than half a' day 'til we reach Boston."

"Really?" I asked, suddenly revitalized.

"Yeah," he said, but he said no more. I turned to the water and gripped the railing tightly. I was almost to my boy.

"Mathieu," I said to the water, "I'm almost there." I looked up and could almost see the shores of America. It was so foreign, so lovely. It was still wild. There were still proud wolves wandering in the mountains. Songbirds serenaded the strong, young streams and ancient trees with their outstretched arms decorated in broad leaves. Regal hawks and eagles circled fields of lively mice. It was still pristine in North America.

"What'cher son like?" the man asked. I turned.

"Hm?"

"What'cher son like?" he repeated.

"Mathieu?" I was surprised. "Well... He is a bit shy. He knows he doesn't know everything, and he likes to read to learn. He wants to be a scholar." I paused and turned to the water again. " He loves the wild beauty of North America. We used to walk through the snowy forests in Nunavut together. He loved the birds and the animals in the woods. Unless he has changed, he used to love bears ze most. When he was still _très jeune_, I bought him a stuffed polar bear. He might still have it." I turned.

"Do you have a child?" I asked him. He nodded, dark eyes staring out toward the ocean.

"Had twin boys. They were my pride and joy. Xerxes, the oldest, he wanted ta be a carpenter. John, he wanted ta be a fishermen like me."

"Wanted?" I asked, feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"They were drafted to fight the French and Indian War," he said softly, and I could see the gleam of a tear in his eyes. "The Spanish Army killed them, down in the South." My blood ran cold.

"I... I didn't realize-"

"What's past is past," he interrupted, " 'M done worryin' 'bout what coulda been." Guilt settled over my heart like a powder. He glanced over.

"Weren't yer fault," he said, "At least, not juss yer fault. Takes two ta tussle. If'I juss blame you, I wouldn' be doing my boys justice." I could feel acid tears and I let out a choked chuckle.

"Seems that this war did nothing but bring pain and break families," I mused, gripping the railing tighter.

" 'S war fer ya," he said, "Ain't no good done by fightin'." I nodded and watched the foamy ocean water numbly.

"You're absolutely right, _Monsieur_," I murmured, "You're absolutely right."

* * *

I'm a pacificist anyway, but when I think of the different families that are ripped apart by wars, I become furious. Why can't everyone just set aside their differences? Did the man ever think that the boy he killed had a father and a mother, just like him? What do we gain when we take life? I think if we all took some time to consider the world as well as ourselves, there'd be a lot less killing and a lot less violence. Maybe I'm just dreaming. Maybe it'll never happen. Maybe we were just designed to fight amongst ourselves, and slaughter our brothers.

Please R&R, if it suits you.


	4. Le Fin

The final chapter~! I finally finished this familial story~! I have translations at the end, _if it pleases you_. ;P

Disclaimer: Non-ownership of Hetalia to me. Too bad. T.T I would love being Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Chapter 4**

I heard the shore before I saw it. When I awoke from my nap, I could hear the waves smashing on the shoreline, could hear the raucous cries of gulls. I opened my eyes blearily and looked around. The smell of cities permeated the sea smell. I leapt to my feet, wobbling on sleep-weakened limbs, and stumbled onto the deck.

"_Monsieur_, are we-?"

"We're near the bay now," he said curtly. I looked around, and I could see the long stretch of Massachusetts' beaches. I was almost at the shore. I could ride a horse to the border, and that would take a few days, _non_? I could meet my boy soon!

"This is amazing!" I said, turning to the fisherman. I only faced him briefly before I turned back to the ocean and stared at the approaching shore.

"Your boy will be glad ta see ya."

"I hope so," I said.

We pulled into the bay, and I didn't even wait to be docked before leaping over the railing.

"_Merci, Monsieur_!" I said, bowing my head, "_Merci _for it all!"

"It's no problem," he said, and his timbre changed to a more tender sound.

"I hope to see you again one day," I said, "I owe you so much for this, _Monsieur_."

"'Name's Will," he said.

"Well, Will," I said, smiling, "When I return home, I'll visit you. I owe you a drink, at least."

"You owe me nothin'," he said gruffly.

"_Au contraire_," I said, "But we'll argue about this on a later date. Farewell!" He nodded, and I dashed into the town.

The cool coastal air tangled my hair as I sprinted down the streets. There were men who saw me and stared. Then there were others who called after me. I ignored them. I needed to get to the outskirts and find a horse.

"Sir! Where are you headed in such'a hurry!" one called.

Another replied to him, "He's chasing someone important, of course! Can't ya see that?"

The cobblestones hurt. I could feel the jarring motion throughout my body. I winced but didn't stop. I couldn't. I couldn't waste any more time. I forced my legs to continue. I forced my muscles to cooperate. Adrenaline coated my throat. I felt so ill but refused to stop.

Finally, I reached the outside of town. My legs nearly gave out as I slowed, forcing me to rest against an ancient tree. My stomach jerked and twisted with the taste of coppery adrenaline. I wheezed and gagged. My legs trembled with weakness. My eyelids fluttered.

"Hello, stranger." I looked up into the face of a real farmer. His beard was thick and reddish. Laughing eyes greeted mine.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_," I said, forcing myself to stand.

"You must be the running man," he said, chuckling, "Goin' somewhere important?"

"Yes," I said, leaning my weight against the tree heavily, "But I have need of a... er, horse, I believe the word is."

"Well, we got tons a' horses at my farm," he said, offering a hand, "You could borrow one of 'em. Where'ya headed?"

"Canada," I said, and he laughed.

"So far? What fer?"

"To see someone I haven't seen for a long time," I said bluntly. I didn't like this man much. He was nosy. Very English, I assumed.

"Well, borrow one of mine. I'm Quentin, by the way."

"My name is Francis," I said, shaking his hand, "I thank you kindly, sir." He shrugged.

"No problem, Francis." He led me to his house, a petite building with a large barn.

"Any pref'rence in horses?" he asked.

"Whatever brings me there the fastest," I replied, "It matters not." He nodded and disappeared into the barn, and I stood there, feeling disgusting. I leaned over and spit, tasting foul, blood-flavored adrenaline. It was disgusted with this action, disgusted with the taste. I felt crude. I straightened my back just as he was exiting the barn with a mount, but I could still taste copper.

"This here's mah fastest horse," he said, patting the black mare's haunches. She looked at me with a mild curiosity.

"How much do you want for the ride?" I asked him.

"Free if ya bring her back in one piece. I'll decide what'cha owe me if she's hurt when ya get back."

"_Merci, Monsieur_," I said, bowing my head politely. He handed me the reigns and carefully, I mounted her.

"How long do you think it'll take?" he asked me.

"Five days, _monsieur_," I told him, "If not that, I don't know." He laughed.

"Alright. I trust you, stranger." The horse whinnied impatiently. He knew my name but called me stranger. That bothered me, but I didn't argue.

"_Adieu_," I said, waving shortly before wheeling the mare around and setting off. I could see him waving after me. He was too social. I turned to the road. I had a while to go.

"Come along, _ma belle*_," I whispered to the horse, and with an almost supernatural rush, she shot forward, toward the untamed wild of the north.

* * *

"Can I come in?" I looked up from my polar bear.

"Who-?"

"Alfred. Can I come in?" he asked again.

"... Sure..." I hugged the stuffed animal tighter. He opened the door and entered. His eyes were red and puffy from crying.

"You okay?" he asked. I nodded.

"I guess."

"News from Massachusetts says there was a crazy Frenchmen who ran through the streets of Boston."

"So?"

"So? It could be your dad."

"Arthur would kill him before I saw him anyway," I said softly, staring at a knot in the floorboards.

"Not if he was distracted when Francis came into the house." I looked up, and he was watching me intently.

"You're offering... to help me?"

"I'm done with my dad," he said, looking away bitterly, "I don't think he ever _really _cared about me. He just wanted to use me. So I'm gonna get equal. He's too worried about me right now to worry about you, cooped up in your room. If I can scare him into worrying about my safety, I can lead him away from this lodge and your dad can get in." I studied his face.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Helping? I told you."

"You're not gonna gain anything though."

"Look, stop scrutinizing me!" he said, exasperated, "I don't care the consequences! Trust me!" I looked over his face.

"What if it's not my dad?"

"It's a risk we gotta take, Matt!" he said. This was the first time he used my name. My eyes widened.

"You just called me-"

"Your name _is_ Matt, right?" he asked, raising a brow.

"You never called me by my name before though," I said, "You always called me 'loser' or 'moron' or 'frenchie'." He frowned.

"I know," he sighed, "It wasn't exactly nice of me... But look! I'm trying to help, Matt. Do you want my help or not?" I squeezed the soft fabric of my bear tightly.

"... When did they see him?" I asked.

"A day ago. They say he got a horse," Alfred said.

"How long will it take to get here on horse?"

"Four days from Boston."

"So he has three days left..." I looked up into Alfred's bright eyes. "What's the plan then?"

"I'm going to pretend to be suicidal," he said, smiling, and approached the bed. He put his hand down on the fabric. "Can I sit?" I nodded, and he plopped down beside me.

"You're going to pretend to want to kill yourself?" I asked. He grinned.

"Yup. If Arthur thinks I'm going to throw myself into the Lawrence River, he'll follow me. I'll lead him on a long chase. I'll try for at least two hours."

"What if he lets you go though?" I asked. He stiffened. His whole body slowly sunk to a hunched-over crouch.

"I... I didn't want to think about that..." he murmured. I looked at him worriedly.

"Alfred..."

"I don't want him to confirm that he doesn't care anymore..." he said softly, "It's bad enough to suspect it." He looked up.

"Did you ever worry that your dad didn't love you anymore?"

"...No. Never," I admitted. He lowered his gaze again.

"Ah. Yeah. You're dad's a good guy, after all."

"Arthur's not that bad," I tried to console him, but he shook his head with a pained smile.

"You don't need to lie for him, Matt. I know him better than he cares to admit." He stared at the floor unseeingly.

"So we do this in three days," he said, "Are you in?"

"Yeah," I said. He looked up, smiling.

"You're a great guy, Matt. And I'm sorry for before. I was... I was a real jerk, hunh."

"You're forgiven," I said, grinning. He leaned back, stretching his arms before turning to me.

"Soo... isn't this new land awesome?" he said, "I love North America. It's the right temperature, it's still in one piece, it's natural..."

"Yeah, it's great," I agreed, "Have you even been up north?"

"Nope. Arthur won't let me go into your boundaries," he said.

"Oh... I'll bring you there sometime," I said.

"What are we talking about?" We looked up. Arthur was standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

"North America," Alfred responded plainly, "I was talking about the land, and he was agreeing. It's nice here, ya know." He looked at me sternly but I didn't speak.

"How would you know anything about North America, either of you?" he asked, but it wasn't condescending or mean. "You haven't explored any of the west. And Alfred, you haven't seen the north at all."

"Well, what I have seen is beautiful!" Alfred snapped. Arthur chuckled, and suddenly he looked older. He looked in with the ancient maturity of a grandfather.

"Can I sit?" he asked.

"No," Alfred said flatly. He ignored his colony and looked at me with those suddenly ancient eyes.

"S-sure..." I said softly. He walked in and sat down in the wooden chair in the corner. Alfred shot me a warning look, but I could only offer an apologetic response.

"I need to apologize to you both," he said, folding one leg over the other and resting his entwined hands on his thigh.

"What do you mean?" Alfred asked coldly.

"I've been a terrible father, Alfred," he said, looking directly at his son, "I've ignored you. I was so negligent, and you got hurt in the process. I didn't mean to forget you, Alfie, but I got so caught up in war and fighting that I forgot what it meant to have a family." I looked over at Alfred. His fists were clenched tightly and his eyes were locked on his lap.

"It's a bit late, don't you think?" he asked bitterly.

"I know, Alfie-"

"Don't call me that!" he snapped, his viewpoint swiftly changing so he could stare his father in the face, "Your Alfie died when you became obsessed with Matt here!"

"No, he didn't," Arthur said with the patience of a saint, "He's sitting across from me, and he's been hurt."

"Will you stop acting like you actually _care _about me!" Alfred got to his feet and glared down at his tired father, "I'm not your son, any more than Matt is. And you may have made me, but you sure as hell aren't my father!" He turned and stormed out, leaving Arthur and I alone. I clutched the soft terrycloth of my bear tighter. Arthur sighed, his misty green eyes slowly moving to meet mine.

"I did something terrible by neglecting my boy," he said, "I thought what I was doing was right, but I averted seeing the best example of parenting. Your father- he is the most dedicated father I have ever seen. He's sick and slowly losing his mind without you."

"D-Dad?" I sat up straighter, "Y... You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you let this happen!" I shouted, "I thought you cared about him! He's losing it, and you don't lift a finger!"

"I was going to bring him here. I was going to give you back," he said softly, and I jerked forward.

"What? _Was_?"

"I _was_, until I got word from Antonio that he was missing," Arthur said, "They think he ran off to America, but there's been no news since. He might have died at sea." I froze.

"No... No!" I looked up, furious. Hot tears formed. "You're lying! You're lying, damnit! You know he's alive! You sick bastard!"

"I'm not lying!" he said heatedly, "Do you think I want to say he's dead? You know my feelings, Matthew!"

"Then you're trying to get a rise out of me!" I was in hysterics, "You want to see me upset!"

"Calm down, Matthew," he snapped, getting to his feet, "I don't care what you think of me, I would never hurt someone emotionally!" I clutched my bear tighter and howled into the soft fabric, and he sat beside me.

"Matthew." I looked up, sobbing. He held out his arms. I didn't know what to do. I was just... so scared. I tossed aside the stuffed animal and threw myself into his arms and just sobbed. Those strange, foreign, fatherly arms closed around me in a protective embrace and strong fingers rubbed my back gently.

"I'm hoping for the best for you, Matthew. Francis might still be alive, he might be coming... And if he is, I'll let him walk in and take you home. I swear." I clutched at his jacket and just cried.

* * *

It was time. I arrived outside of the lodge, weak, tired. My horse was barely on her feet, but proud. I fastened her reigns to a fence and tottered toward the door. We had made good time, in only three days. I felt sick and lightheaded, but I was here. I knew Arthur might be around, so I peeked in through the side window. That bastard... he was seated before the fire. My rage flared, but I controlled myself. Slowly, I slunk from the porch. I searched the window for moving bodies. I was not disappointed. I found a dimly lit window on the second floor, with a slim body moving gracefully to and fro. I found a small pebble and lobbed it gently, then slunk into the shadows. The person approached the window and I saw him. My son. My eyes filled with tears, and I stepped into the dim light.

"Mathieu!" I called out softly. He looked down.

"Dad?"

"I'm coming, Mathieu!" I called up.

"I thought you had died, Dad!" he cried, "They said you might have died-"

"Then they don't know what true strength is," I said, "A boat trip won't kill me." I grabbed hold of the boards making up the outside of the house and hefted myself up, digging the toes of my boots into the space between the slats. He watched, awestruck, as I slowly crept up the side of the building.

"If you hear him coming, get away from the window," I warned him. He nodded.

"Alright, Dad." I felt all of my arm muscles straining. With a final push, I grabbed a hold of the window sill.

"Open the window, Mathieu," I whispered quickly, "I can't hold myself up much longer." He grabbed the windowpane and pulled it up, and grabbed my forearms and pulled me in. I slumped weakly against the wall.

"Dad!" He dropped to his knees and threw his arms around me. I smiled and pulled him to my chest.

"_Mon cher_... Mathieu..."

"I missed you so much, Dad," he whimpered, beginning to cry.

"And I, you," I whispered, stroking his hair with trembling hands. He was so warm against my skin. He was there. He was real. I kissed his forehead shakily.

"But I'm back... I'm taking you home, Mathieu," I whispered, "I'll fight a million battles if I can keep you with me."

"That's very sweet of you." I looked up in horror. Terror turned to anger as I laid eyes on my rival. He was standing in the doorway, his arms folded.

"Back away," I snarled, "I don't care anymore, Arthur. If you try and take my boy again... I will fight to the death."

"That's not necessary, Francis," he said coolly.

"You think you'll get me without a fight, then?" I asked, slowly standing up straighter. I held Mathieu to my chest protectively.

"I'm not looking for a fight, Francis," Arthur said, "I wanted to see you off." I stared at him angrily.

"What do you mean."

"I knew you would be coming. I'm not as stupid as you think. Matthew can vouch for this. _I've waited for you to come and get your son_. I would have rather you come through the front door, but then again, you always knew how to make an entrance, didn't you."

"I swear, Arthur, if you're kidding, I'm going to slaughter you," I snarled.

"Dad, he's telling the truth," Mathieu said softly. I looked down at my child questioningly. His eyes were filled with soft, translucent tears.

"He told me this last night," he said quietly, "He said... he said that he would let you leave with me if you were alive."

"You told him I was dead?" I looked at him in shock.

"I thought you were!" he explained, sounding sincerely surprised, "Antonio had sent a letter saying that you had gone overseas in a rickety boat... I very well wasn't going to let the newspapers tell him!" My grip tightened around my child's small shoulders. He looked up.

"Dad?"

"I... _merci_," I said, looking away. I felt Arthur's eyes scanning me questioningly.

"You're welcome. After all" and he paused, letting a spiteful grin spread over his lips "You may be a bloody wanker, but I don't think life would be as interesting without you." I whipped my head around.

"_Pardones-moi**_!" I snapped, "I didn't think that called for such vulgar terms!" Then I sighed, and a small smile played over my lips. "Regardless, I can feel your jealousy. After all" I freed one hand and tossed my messy hair awkwardly "Not all of us can be as sexy as _moi_." Arthur rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"I know this is probably where you storm out, but would you like to stay a night and get cleaned up? Not to be entirely rude, but you look like a plague victim."

"I still look better than you," I said, looking down at him arrogantly.

"Yet I don't believe you," he said, narrowing his eyes, "Are you going to stay or not?"

"Well, even though you are English... I believe I _could _stay the night, _if _it reassures you and your English nerves."

"It would," he said, smiling delicately. Gently, I released Mathieu, who turned and embraced me as if I were glass before sitting down on his bed.

"Would you like some tea?" Arthur asked, "We can afford civilities, just for a day, yes?"

"I _guess_," I sighed heavily. He shook his head.

"Shall I show you were the bath is, and you can get that rancid sea-stink from your clothes as I find something for you to change into?"

"That... would be nice," I replied. I wasn't used to his kindness.

"You can leave your jacket in here; I'll find you clean clothes. I assume you and I are about the same size."

"Yeah..." I looked around as I shed my jacket. My dirty silk shirt adhered to my skin grimily. I pulled at the filthy garment disgustedly and looked up. Arthur's eyes lingered on the clinging garment for a moment before he turned.

"Come on. I'm not waiting for you forever, Francis," he said curtly. I chuckled.

"Coming, coming." He led me out of the room and down the hall.

"Did... Did you take care of my boy?" I asked.

"..." he was silent for a moment. "I won't lie to you, Francis." My expression hardened.

"What did you do?" I growled softly. He led me into a room with a small tub.

"I wasn't the best substitute for a father," he said gently, "I did things I regret. But!" he held his hand up as if to stop me. "I didn't lay a hand on him." I narrowed my eyes.

"If you're lying to me-" I began. He put his hand up.

"I wouldn't lie to you about your own child. I _do _have morals, Francis."

"I sometimes don't believe you, Arthur," I said softly.

"I'll heat up some water so you can take a warm bath," he said, as if not hearing me, "There are towels in the closet there. You can undress and wrap up in one if you want." My fire burned out. I nodded.

"Okay," I said. He exited, bringing the door out with him but leaving it open a crack. I began to undress, peeling the filthy silks from my skins. When I peeled them away, I was struck by a wall of odor. I cringed. Did I really smell so terrible! I disposed of the garment, casting it toward the farthest corner of the room. When I removed my trousers, I could smell the grime of the sea and my skin, and I was disgusted by my reek. I tossed that away as well, and when I was totally bare, I cringed at the spots of grime on my skin. I walked across the bathroom to the closet and searched for a towel. I heard the door.

"Here's the first batch of water," Arthur began, but he glanced over and fell silent. I turned my head.

"Oh, hello," I said, taking a towel. I tied it about my waist unhurriedly and turned.

"What is it?" I asked. He shook his head.

"N-nothing." He poured the first potful of water into the tub. I felt the rush of steam. I sighed.

"Ahh... I don't think I've bathed in weeks," I said softly.

"I can smell it," he said, covering his nose. I shook my head, laughing.

"I apologize, then," I said, mock-bowing. He shook his head and turned to leave. He never looked toward me once. I looked into the water. It was steaming and clear, but there was barely three inches in the bottom. I shook my head, inhaled the warm vapors, and took a seat on the floor in wait.

* * *

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. God, he was beautiful. I forced myself to erase the image of his sculpted frame from my mind with a slim margin of success. Then I stared into the fire poignantly. I yearned after a person I knew I could never get. It tore at my heart. If only... but I wouldn't breach that line, and I didn't expect he would either. The water let out a few wisps of vapor. I focused my eyes on the innards of the heavy cooking pot. The liquid was steaming, so I found a thick cloth and took a hold of the heavy iron handle and lifted it from the hook over the fire. Then I staggered up the stairs with the heavy pot. I knocked this time.

"Come in," he said. I opened the door. He was seated on the floor in front of the basin. I looked away and poured the hot water into the tub.

"Two more," I muttered, and hurried out of the room. Damn that Frenchmen! Damn him! When I got to the kitchen, I filled the pot and set it above the fire. Then I sat down. He was too perfect.

"Arthur?" I looked to the top of the stairs. He was standing there, his towel fastened just below his belly button.

"What?" I asked.

"Can I sit with you down there?" he asked, "I want to talk a while... I feel guilty about blaming you for all of this. I want to apologize."

"Come down then," I called up. He smiled, bowed his head politely, before hurrying down the stairs. He had to hold the knot on his towel to keep it up, but when he reached the bottom, he released it. Then he walked over to me and sat down in the chair Matthew always sat in.

"I feel so unkind," he admitted, folding his legs elegantly, "I laid all of the blame on you... but it was my fault, also. I guess... rather, I _know_... I'm not as stable as you. You're so sturdy, Arthur, so impervious. I know I won't ever be like that, but could you at least accept _my _apology?" I stared at his gaunt, unhappy face, and I felt the all-too-familiar butterflies rise from their slumber. I looked toward the pot.

"I was mad at you, I will admit," I said softly, watching the twisting tongues of flame lick the black iron, "But I was angrier at myself for separating a family. It was something terrible I did. I was expecting to be the one who needed to apologize." I looked up, and saw his hand going to his face, wiping his cheek with an open palm. He swallowed.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispered, "I'm just... tired and sick... I don't mean to-"

"It's understandable," I said, cutting him off, "You're just not feeling well." he looked up appreciatively. And how beautiful his blue eyes were right now. Even ringed with dark, the irises sparkled like sapphires. He wiped his eyes again.

"I won't accept your apology because you have nothing to apologize for," I said, "But I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive _me_." He nodded, biting his lip against a fresh round of tears. I looked at the pathetic man, so weakened, and I wanted to reach out. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my handkerchief, then leaned over and offered it to him. He nodded thankfully and took it, dabbing his eyes with the cotton sheet.

"I didn't want to fall apart like this in front of you," he said, chuckling, "I don't want my rival to think that I'm not as strong as he."

"I'll ignore it tonight," I chuckled, "Just because it _is _such an emotional night." I glanced over at the now scalding pot. I cursed and grabbed the handle with the towel, scowling at the near boiling liquid.

"Stay here; I have to prepare one more potful," I said, and I staggered up the stairs with the water. After filling the tub, I walked back down. Francis looked limp. His eyes were closed; on his thick, blonde lashes clung a few unshed tears. His head lolled to one side weakly. I could hear his easy breathing. I chuckled as I filled the pot. He had been so tired, he had fallen asleep in the chair. I set the crock over the fire and sat down across from him. I could see the fine lines of his age around his mouth. In sleep, you saw how old he really was. He was getting up there, I noted with a smile. He was pretty old. Though I wasn't really one to talk, now was I? We were tied in age, ultimately. He might be a bit older, but it really didn't matter.

He mumbled in his sleep and his legs twitched weakly. I shook my head. I would need to wake him up before the water got cold. Speaking of water... I looked at the crock. The tendrils of steam curled from inside, so I brought the last potful to the tub and poured it into the basin. Then I walked downstairs and set the pot at the edge of the fire pit. Softly, I walked over to Francis and touched his shoulder gently. I could feel the oil from not bathing on his skin, but I could feel the silky smoothness of it too. Gently, I shook him.

"Francis, your bath is ready. Francis..." He moaned in his sleep and rolled over. This drew the terrycloth of his towel taut over his upper thighs and hips. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, but I continued to nudge him.

"Francis, wake up. Come on, before the water gets cold..."

"_Non, papa... pas maintenant_," he groaned, his hand moving lazily to bump me, "_Pas maintenant! Cinq minutes plus…***_" I chuckled.

"Come on, you're a grown man. You dad doesn't wake you anymore."

"_Je s'rai prêt dans un peu_...****" he mumbled sleepily. His eyes began to open, narrow cerulean slits. Hazy pupils slid in pools of blue until they locked on my form.

"You woke me," he grumped, sitting up. I shrugged.

"I thought you had died; you smell like it at least."

"You of all people should know not to kick a man while he's down," he whined, standing up. He refastened the knot holding his towel together.

"The bath's done," I said. He nodded absently.

"_Merci_."

"You can go now. Rather, it's recommended before the water cools," I persisted. He sighed.

"You Englishmen and your hurry," he griped, "Always in such a rush." But he turned and began up the stairs. I followed, but I didn't know why. He stepped into the bathroom, and I heard the soft '_shwoo_' of his towel hitting the wooden floor. I stood at the door, looking away, toward the ceiling, the floor, anything to keep my eyes out of the bathroom.

"Uh, Arthur...? Are you there?"

"Yes," I responded.

"There's... there's no soap or anything in here," he said. I sighed and hit the heel of my palm to my forehead. That was so ignorant of me.

"I'll go find some. Hold on," I said. I went out on a search throughout the house. I found a single bar and walked back to the bathroom. I knocked on the doorframe.

"You can just come in," he said. I stepped into the steamy room. I could see his blonde mop, matted to his head with water. I walked up to him and handed him the soap. He took it slowly, and I could feel his wet skin against mine. I blushed slightly.

"_Merci_," he said softly, and he took the bar. I turned to the door.

"You might want a cleaner towel after your bath," I said hurriedly.

"Okay," he said. I could hear the water sloshing as he washed up, so I exited. My breath hitched in my throat when I got outside of the door.

"If it's so hard to be near my dad like that, why do you go near him?" I turned, and Matthew was in his pajamas and his father's coat.

"That thing's filthy," I told him.

"It smells like Dad," he said simply. Then: "You're flushed." I looked away and coughed into my closed fist.

"It's just warm," I said.

"I wish I looked like my dad," Matthew continued, looking away, "He's so handsome and strong... and I'm just..."

"You're good-looking, Matthew," I said, turning back to him. He looked up, but wasn't reassured.

"You don't need to lie to me, Arthur," he said with a small smile.

"You're attractive in your own way," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "There's probably hundreds who would fall for you." He looked at my face, and I saw his eyes light up.

"Really?"

"Of course," I said, "And one of these days, you're going to meet one." He smiled; a genuine, shining smile reminiscent of his father.

"Thanks, Arthur," he said. I smiled gently.

"It's no problem," I replied. He nodded, and drew his father's coat tighter about himself. His buried his nose in the collar and inhaled deeply. I chuckled.

"He's just in the bathroom, you know." He just nodded in response. His eyes closed and he inhaled again. I shook my head.

"I'll never understand you French," I said.

"And we'll never understand you Englishmen."

I turned around sharply. Francis was in the doorway, dripping wet. His towel was fastened about his hips again. His hair was plastered to his forehead with water.

"_Merci _for the bath," he said to me. I shook my head and tore my eyes from the water dribbling down his chest.

"Dad, will you stay in my room with me?" Matthew asked eagerly. Francis nodded.

"Anything you want, _mon cher_," he said with a smile. Matthew beamed.

"Yaay!"

"But you shouldn't wear my jacket," Francis scolded, "It's filthy!"

"I don't care," Matthew declared. Francis shook his head.

"Let me wash it first," he said, reaching around his boy and removing the garment, "I don't want you to reek like seawater and skin oils. That's an English trait." And he chuckled as he shot me a sidelong look. I rolled my eyes.

"Damned wanker..." he laughed; and I knew Francis had finally returned, despite his fatigue and illnesses. The blonde man dropped his coat onto the floor.

"Let me dry off and start my laundry," he told Matthew, "And we can spend the rest of the night together." The boy beamed.

"Can I help? W-with laundry, that is..." he flushed crimson, and Francis just laughed.

"Alright. Hold on though. I'm getting your floor all wet!" He tossed his hair, and I spluttered as the water met my face.

"Francis!" he looked over.

"Oops. Did I get you wet?" he asked mockingly, "_De-solé*****_." And he bowed, glancing up from under his dripping bangs. I shook my head.

"You seem yourself again. Why don't you just get dressed?"

"Oh!" he looked around, "I forgot... I need clothes."

"Oh... bollocks, I said I would get you some..." I grimaced, "Hold on." I hurried to the master bedroom and found my closet. I dug out a pair of trousers and a simple, button-down shirt. Then I walked back to the hallway. Francis was saying something to Matthew, who was hanging off every word he spoke. I handed him the clothes.

"This?" he shook his head with a roguish smile. "I forgot. Your clothes are so simple."

"Well, we can't all be extravagant like you," I said dryly. He smiled and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door slowly. Matthew made a strangled noise, and I looked over. His eyes were flooded with tears.

"Matthew?" He began to sniffle and tremble. His shoulders jerked up and down and his face screwed up. He rushed forward and buried his face in my jacket, his body racked with shuddering sobs. I touched his back gingerly, gently massaging his bony spine.

"What's wrong, Matthew?" I asked the top of his head, "I thought you would be happy to see him again?"

"I am," he said, looking up. His eyes were glittery with heavy tears.

"Then why are you crying?" I asked.

"I'm not crying," he said, smiling a watery smile, "These are tears of joy." And he buried his face in my jacket again and shook violently. I smiled gently and rubbed his back and took the place of a father for once in my life.

* * *

I pulled the soft cotton fabric over my head, inhaling the wooden smell of my rival accidentally. He was a nice guy when he wanted to be, I guess.

His shirt was really soft. I felt like I was in a clean bed. His pants were of a heavier material, yet they were still soft. I slid the cottony material up my thighs and buttoned them. His clothes were so soft. I patted myself down to smooth the fabric, secretly admiring the feeling, before toweling my hair dry. I ran my fingers through the messy knots. I was going to ask for a comb, but I decided against it. He probably didn't own any; his hair was so untidy! When my mane was moderately tamed, I opened the door. Arthur was holding my crying son. This perplexed me. It also frustrated me.

"_Pardones_," I said, trying to kick the tone of ice from my voice without avail, "I didn't mean to intrude." Mathieu looked up, his eyes teary.

"Dad," he said, smiling affectionately. He released Arthur roughly and rushed to my side. I took him in my arms and felt his warm body against mine, and my rage quelled. I looked at Arthur.

"He misses you," he said simply. I nodded absently, my fingers finding their way to Mathieu's hair. I felt how soft and puerile the roots were, how long it was.

"You turned my son into a punk," I said playfully. The blonde Englishman rolled his eyes but didn't speak. I stroked his hair with tentative fingers for a while longer.

"I think..." I began, and Mathieu looked up, "That you and I should probably go to bed. At least, _I _need to now."

"Can't you stay up a bit longer?" Mathieu asked. I looked down at him, at his pleading expression and his needy eyes.

"Alright... I'll try," I said softly, and he beamed.

"Yes!"

"Shall we take a seat before the fire?" I asked. He nodded, and darted away from me and down the stairs as if he were still a child. I followed heavily.

"_Est-ce pouvons-nous parler en notre langue premiere_?" I asked, "_Je ne suis pas fond de la langue Anglais`*_." He looked up at me.

"Ah... I kinda... forgot how to speak French," he admitted guiltily, "I couldn't speak it here, and it's been years..." My jaw nearly dropped. I whipped around and shouted up the stairs.

"You even took his maiden language! You filthy _sourise_! You urchin!"

"I can't help if he prefers English," Arthur retorted back, "If he really loved your filthy drivel of a language, he'd remember it!" I sighed.

"You remember some, _oui_?" I asked, almost desperately. He shook his head.

"Only a few phrases... I'm sorry, Dad..."

"Ahh... It's not entirely your fault," I said, taking a seat heavily. He sat across from me. He looked so distraught, I couldn't help myself: I laughed. He became bewildered.

"What?"

"It's not a problem!" I said, "I can reteach you it, if you want! Don't look so upset, _mon cher_!" He looked away, and I stood up and stalked over to him. He turned just as I knelt in front of him. I took his hands in mine and looked into his face.

"I don't care what language you speak," I said gently, "You've always been _mon fils, mon cher, ma __vie(1)_... And you always will be. _Cet je te promets_." He looked down toward me with such admiration and love right then. I squeezed his hand gently, enfolding the pale, trembling extremity in mine delicately.

"Dad... I've really missed you," he said, his voice barely a whisper of a breeze, "You always knew what to do and what to say." I smiled softly.

"It's because I want to see my son gain his wings and fly like he should," I whispered, "Because he is great, no matter what anyone tells him." He beamed.

"You don't mean that."

"Assuredly," I replied, surprised, "Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm just... me..." he trailed off, and I shook my head.

"No son of mine is 'just me'," I said firmly, "You're amazing, no matter what you think. You're handsome and smart, you're genial, and you will do great things when you grow older. I can feel it."

"You're just saying that," he exclaimed, blushing.

"Certainly not!" I said, genuinely hurt, "I don't idly speak. Do you not believe me?"

"No," he said firmly, looking down at me resolutely.

"Well, you should," I said simply, "Because you are from a family of heroes. And you yourself are the most special."

"No," he repeated.

"_Oui! Oui_! You're unique, Mathieu! You're special; you're cultured in a..." I looked back at the stairs "English territory." He laughed.

"Dad, Arthur isn't that bad!"

"That's because you haven't seen a cultured man in years," I said dryly. He shook his head. I couldn't help but laugh as he tried to explain how Arthur _was _a gentleman. Then I yawned. Sleep was creeping up on me again. I wouldn't rest my chin on my hand because I feared falling asleep.

"Dad...? Are you listening?" I blinked in surprise.

"Mm? Oh, sorry... you were asking about Antonio?"

"No... you already told me that. If you want, we can go to bed," he said. I shook my head.

"It's alright. I can stay up as long as you like," I said, yawning into my hand again. He smiled.

"Let's go to bed then." I nodded idly and stood up. He was immediately at my side, loyally. We walked up the staircase, through the hall, and through the doorway into his room. I could hear Arthur's soft, sleeping breaths from the master bedroom. I would have smiled, but I yawned instead.

"Do you have any spare blankets?" I asked, "I can make my bed on the floor there."

"You can share my bed with me, if you want," he said softly, and I glanced over. He was blushing. I smiled gently.

"If you don't mind, that would be perfectly lovely, Mathieu." He smiled, but his cheeks were still stained cerise. I slipped under the covers and opened my arms, and he joined me, snuggling against my body.

"Why are you always so warm?" he asked me, resting his head on my chest, "You're always... so warm..." He sighed and was still. I smiled and ruffled his hair. My boy had fallen asleep before I did. I kissed his forehead gently and rested my head on the pillow.

"_Je t'aime, Mathieu(3)_," I murmured, before slipping into blissful unawareness, my son back in my arms and by my side again.

~Fin.

Sorry, this chapter is ridiculously long, compared to its predecessors. But I finished the story~! Is it cute? Did you like it? Can you review? Please? Though I'm not begging. Nuh uh. I'm gently persuading. R&R, please? (I'm showing manners. Aren't I polite? I deserve an award for being a polite American.)

**TRAAAAAAANNSLAAAAAATIONS**~!

* _Ma Belle_- my beauty

** _Pardones-moi_!- Excuse me!

*** _Non, papa, pas maintenant... pas maintenant... cinq minutes plus_!- No, papa, not now... not now... five more minutes!

**** _Je s'rai pret dans un peu_...- I'll be ready in a bit...

*****- _De-solé_!- Sor-ry!

`* _Est-ce pouvons-nous parler en notre langue premiere? __Je ne suis pas fond de la langue Anglais.- _Can we speak our first language? I'm not fond of the English language.

(1) _Mon fils, mon cher, ma vie_...- My son, my dear, my life...

(2) _Cet, je te promets_- This, I promise you.

(3) _Je t'aime, Matthieu_- I love you, Matthieu.


End file.
